


Where do you run

by withered



Series: Who's been lovin' you good? [25]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Cuddles, Dissociation, Established Relationship, M/M, Never team cap friendly tbh, Signs of domestic life, Sleepy Tony, Soldier pretending to be Bucky, Tony would know how to take care of Bucky, Winter Soldier looks for a handler, not team Cap friendly, seriously, soft bois, someone get this boy a blanket and a hug, taking care of each other, the shitty circumstances of Bucky's life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-25 02:40:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16188383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withered/pseuds/withered
Summary: They can pretend that he only gets feral and violent when he’s being threatened, that it’s all just the result of defense mechanisms and ingrained training.Everyone can pretend.Except Tony.





	Where do you run

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from the song by the same name from The Score
> 
> Happy ao3 anniversary to me! I'd like to thank everyone reading my winteriron fics. I think this is legitimately the most I've written in a year and I'm so grateful to all of you for your support. 
> 
> As usual, this story kicked me around for a few days, and since I haven't quite gotten off the fluff-kick I've been on, this is a slight continuation of it with a hint of domestic fluff because I dig that shit.

 

After the mission report is given, he doesn’t hesitate to walk out of the war room despite Fury’s scowl of displeasure.

He doesn’t need to stay longer than necessary.

They don’t need him now that he’s done what he came to do. The extent of his purpose is concluded: the mission is complete, they have no need for the Winter Soldier.

And he’s relieved.

Working with SHIELD, being part of the Avengers Initiative is not much different to being with Hydra.

There’s no torture, no deep freeze, no wipes, at least, and while the uniform, the name, the insignia are different, what they need of him is fundamentally the same – fight, procure and kill.

When it’s over, when they have no need for him – it feels like being put under.

He flexes, clenches and unclenches his fists and blinks unseeingly as a barely-there chill settles against his skin.

There’s a vague ringing in his ears as his senses grow dull, as he becomes aware of how he’s dissociating – having an out of body experience. He watches himself navigate towards the residential floor of the Compound.

The few people he comes across nod in acknowledgment.

Kamala high-fives him as he passes, and he huffs in amusement when she wiggles her brows and mimics an explosion with her hands before he turns a corner with a shake of his head.

Peter follows him to the common room, talking excitedly about the upcoming Stark Expo.

He ruffles the kid’s hair, waves him off, keeps walking.

He’s still floating – untethered – when Rogers stops him and chats, laughing and patting him on the arm, and he listens with half an ear before nodding and walking off.

Rogers doesn’t question it.

“Bucky always gets like that after a mission,” he’ll tell anyone who’ll listen why _Bucky_ ’s so quiet, and he huffs a bit under his breath.

He isn’t even trying.

The Winter Soldier was an assassin, not a spy, but he had few options available to him after the helicarrier fiasco that led to his escape. He wouldn’t be receiving any help otherwise.

Pretending to be someone else seemed like his only viable option for survival in this new world.

Becoming an international fugitive hadn’t helped in that endeavor.

Still, he’d held out the hope that his visit to the Wakandan freezer would be permanent. A final decommissioning.

Alas. 

Being woken to be told he was _free_ made him downright bitter.

He may have been free from Hydra, but he’d always carry the successes of their missions, the programming that made him their weapon, the phantom touch of their torture.

He didn’t deserve another chance, he didn’t deserve to be free. Which was probably why he was so accepting of the prison he picked for himself: Becoming Bucky Barnes.

It wasn’t a real loss, actually.

The Winter Soldier was an abomination of Hydra programming and the perversion of another person’s psyche. The soldier was never a real person. Something Rogers is quick to remind him whenever he falters – whenever the words scream in his head that _I’m not real, I’m not Bucky –_

But –

Those moments are few and far between.

Fortunately for him, the Captain is more than willing to accept whatever warped version of his best friend the Winter Soldier tries to be and to the soldier’s credit, he does attempt some level of believability.

It was harder when he was freshly frozen, but being back in the United States, the easy access to war reels and American history books are more than enough information to glean from. It takes him less than a week to walk and smirk and sit just like Bucky, and it takes him another two to dispel the Russian accent that slants his words.

There’s no one to miss the soldier.

No one’s the wiser.

But with over seventy years under Hydra’s thumb, old habits die hard; he maintains regular perimeter sweeps; always carries a loaded gun in a holster somewhere on his person, always has knives strapped to his thighs and ankles, and has gone days with only the barest of interactions, the most minimal of sleep and food as he lurked in shadowy corners – watching, observing.

He is not a spy, but he’s good at surviving, and he will be good at this too.

Even if it’s obvious he’s not quite right.

While everyone can pretend that the soldier is Captain America’s sidekick, Bucky Barnes, the prisoner-of-war, Steve’s all-but-blood brother; that he wasn’t one of the successful guinea-pigs that didn’t die on the table the first time Hydra captured him and pumped him with their version of the serum, that he didn’t die in the fall from the train; that the _thing_ that remains of him wasn’t routinely tortured; that he is salvageable, that he is manageable, that he is not broken.

They can pretend he isn’t any of those things.

They can pretend that he only gets feral and violent when he’s being threatened, that it’s all just the result of defense mechanisms and ingrained training.

Everyone can pretend.

Except Tony.

Friday greets him as he enters what is commonly referred to as the Penthouse, Tony’s suite of rooms.

On automatic, he watches himself shed the jacket of his uniform, leaving it on the hook beside Tony’s coat.

His boots are cast aside beside Tony’s.  

On one end of the dining table, Tony’s R&D proposals sit in scattered, organized chaos while on the other end the special case made for his rifle is already open, waiting to be filled.

Even though he’s tired, eyes drooping, he still takes the quiet ten minutes to clean his gun and put it inside.

Because Tony _knows_.

He knows him – Bucky, Winter Soldier, _whoever the hell he is now_ – knows James Barnes’ record as the sergeant, has memorized the dossier on the Winter Soldier and is aware of the things he did to get to Romania, to stay hidden, to carve out a life for himself.

Tony’s still in bed, a head of dark hair peeking out from the mess of the white comforter that he’s tangled in.

Friday hasn’t opened the blinds yet.

Tony must’ve just gotten to bed.  

The tea on the wardrobe, where he leaves the belt he’s coiled, is still warm, and he breathes in the herbal smell.

The shower is set slightly colder than it usually is, and he tips his head in relief; the return to himself almost complete.

After drying himself off, he pads back into the bedroom, humming to himself as he traces the sleep-warm sheets, recalls the differences in texture of the silk and then the interesting contrast of soft skin and dark hair.

He ignores the sleepy grumble and aborted twitch, even as Tony murmurs in the quiet, “ _Tesoro_?” like it’s his name.

He smiles, slides up behind the other man, bare chest against naked back and tightening the arm he’s slipped around Tony’s waist. Tony only squirming to get comfortable, turned so he’s nose to nose with him, before settling again with a contented sigh.

Tony knows those things in the same breath that he knows the way the soldier won’t eat after missions, avoids the use of the med-bay unless it’s empty, can only accept arm maintenance if he’s under the strongest anesthetic known to modern man, has panic attacks in small spaces, feels grounded by the darkness, feels anchored by the cold – Tony _knows._

_“Kotenok.”_

“Home?” Tony asks.

Pressing his nose against his dark hair, picking out the faded cologne, the smell of clean sheets and the slightly bitter aroma of coffee that lingers on his skin, he murmurs a somewhat distracted affirmative, “Home.”

It isn’t a secret, any number of things Tony is aware of, but he’s the only one who notices, he’s the only one who _sees._

And maybe that’s why the soldier latches onto him – the genius-billionaire-playboy who waves off the Rogues’ hostility and grins in the face of their unrepentant remarks.

Tony Stark, who is not a spy, but plays one so well it doesn’t even ping in Romanova’s head that she’s being played for a fool: Forget having one hand on the wheel – the Rogues are practically blindfolded, tied together and being dragged, ass on tarmac.

Tony could throw them to the wolves with only a nod in the soldier’s direction, so it shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone, least of all Tony, that the soldier chooses him.

Now that his existence has been exposed thanks to both Project Insight and the “Civil War”, regimes and governments the world over salivate at the thought of the perfect soldier, the perfect weapon – if only the right words were said – if only the right _methods_ were implemented.

The Winter Soldier was no longer a myth or a ghost story.

He was a highly regarded asset up for grabs.

Hence the need for a suitable handler.

Hence, Tony Stark.

But it’s different now, impossible because unlike with Hydra, with SHIELD, _Tony_ _doesn’t need him_.

“Can I stay with you?” he asks anyway.

Tony huffs a soft laugh, warm breath tickling his skin as the man nuzzled almost thoughtlessly against his collarbone, burrowing into his chest as he admits, “I don’t ever want you to leave, _tesoro_.”

And that’s all he needs – he burrows right back, nose buried in the junction of Tony’s neck and shoulder and breathes – _now, now he’s home._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Legit, I didn't know which of Bucky's names to go with so Tony just calls him "darling" in Italian and puts them both to bed.  
> [Click here if you want to find out more about my work](https://everything-withered.tumblr.com/)


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